*20/104: Untitled*

I shoulder the thought of transparency
but shudder with fresh air knowing
I am a well of personal quiets
no one will ever know.

19/104: I Turn on the Radio

It's 2 am and I'm falling in love
with everything I hear.

Maybe it's the exhaustion, but I'm
waiting for Bruce Springsteen
to push me against the wall
and show me Americana
with his own hands.

18/104: haiku?

four black boys lying
on the porch, laughing, shirtless,
soaking up summer.

17/104: Love poem

I work hard for our little family - my feet ache
like nothing else.
My tarsals are spreading to help my body maintain.
Someone told me once
that maybe my body is in a constant fight or flight state.
He's right.
That's life, or mine anyways.

So, this morning before the moon gave way,
I woke up and made you
hot salt water to gargle because you're sick.

You gagged. I heard you,
but you did it anyways.

16/104: "Them streets are getting wider"

Get out that jaw harp and teach the night about grief.
Let it echo down the streets;
show the neighbors it's possible to have integrity,
even if we can't stand up straight.

I don't know what it's like to dig for scraps
or beg for beer or to carry packs full of burdens alone,
but I do have my own
and I know other pains.

So, sing it again, about the streets and let
loose that intoxicating harmonica.

15/104: Resisting the Urge

The best poets say, basically, just don't do it.
Do not break apart your sternum and squeeze the heart out.
Do not pinpoint the seven million reasons why.
Do not think of summer nights,
sweaty and raw, or how autumn is for lovers.
Just, maybe, stay away from love poems all together.

Which, let's face it, is good for one who writes with clumsy metaphors.
(concrete blocks take my words to the bottom of the river,
love isn't down there).

So, I will not attempt a love poem.
I won't...maybe I will.

Maybe I'll just write a few words -
maybe tomorrow.

*14/104: Untitled and Full of Night*

It's quiet around here, my heart is beating slowly
and melodically.
Life is slow and methodic.
This beauty is slow, too.
Everything around me is heavy, a sad piano - I walk with the same feet
but with difficulty.
I point to the sky and see the harmonica sized sparrows
flitting around,
unfazed by this sadness.

The blues are a sense of relief, but still too bright
to help.

The greens give me life, but life is sometimes
not enough.

I feel my heart - she's still there,
and I,
I am still here.

Let me forget.